Every sixth year, we catch a break that lasts two years.
Yes, St. Patrick’s Day falls on a Saturday this year–the first time in my five-plus years of commuting, and five-plus years of running Trainjotting–that it does so.
You either love or hate St. Patrick’s Day. It’s probably based on age, and maybe that age is around 28 or so–younger, and you love the idea of going out and drinking green beer and urinating in that half alley/half street in front of McSorley’s. Older, and you just see it as amateur night, and wish it was over.
Especially if it’s a weekday, and you have to share the train with the Party People.
You can probably give or take two years on 28, based on your maturity level, and how cranky you are in the face of others partying in your space.
Author Jim was on a train to Hoboken on the day Hoboken was hosting a St. Patty’s themed pub crawl after its annual parade was canceled.
I’m only 40, but man did I feel old. I just wanted to go to the city, I didn’t want to be trapped in what’s best described as a day care center injected with hormones and flooded with grain alcohol. But there I was.
Jim was actually en route to a beer festival in Manhattan. But he had some hard yards to cover before getting there.
The girls across the aisle from me poured Coors Light into shamrock-emblazoned shot glasses attached to festive necklaces and posed for a “doing a shot” picture. The awful British accents began. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the Irish don’t say “allo guvna!” I began to hear Jim Bruer stoner laughs erupting behind me, and I could hear someone say “oh my gawd!” every 10 seconds if I listened closely. The beer had clearly begun to kick in. Mission accomplished, kids.
[Art: Beer & Whiskey Brothers/Beyond Today]